David X. Sheehan
Bio
I write my memories, family, school, jobs, fatherhood, friendship, serious and silly. I read Vocal authors and am humbled by most. I'm 76, in Thomaston, Maine. I seek to spread my brand of sincere love for all who will receive.
Stories (72)
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Dad Killed a Bull
Rushing into the hospital lobby, the parents were shoulder to shoulder and breathing heavily from the cold walk in from the parking lot. Unbuttoning and removing coats and gloves, they approached the information desk to inquire about their 10 years old son, Christopher. “Room 301” the nurse said like an automated tape recording. Entering the room, they were met by the Dr. and their oldest son, David. The Dr. spoke and said “it was a close call, but we got to him in time”. Explaining that an appendicitis is not uncommon, and he had removed many in his career, and that the probabilities say, for a boy Christopher’s age, it would take a couple of weeks before he returned to normal. The Peterson’s thanked him as mom dried her eyes and searched the room for some more tissues. “David”, what happened?” his dad asked. “We were playing in the back yard and Chris just bent over in a ball, and started screaming in pain.” “You didn’t hit him or anything did you?” and David said, “of course not dad”. “What were you playing?” asked Mrs. Peterson. “We were throwing the football back and forth and running around, just playing” David said. A nurse came in and whispered that Christopher should be awake for visitors in a couple of hours, and the cafeteria was open, if we wanted to eat. David said he was hungry and dad was too, but Mrs. Peterson didn’t want to leave, and asked if they’d bring her a coffee on the way back. An hour or so later, David and his dad returned with coffee, and found Christopher awake and chatting away about the operation, couldn’t wait to show his friends the scar. The doctor had come back by and said if Chris passed a couple of tests in the morning that he could get discharged tomorrow afternoon. All was well as visiting hours ended with hugs and kisses all around.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Families
Valentina's Little Flower
“Calendula” her mother called from the kitchen, “last day of school my little flower, come have breakfast with Pappi and me”. Cal, as her friends called her, thinking to herself, I sure don’t feel little or like a flower, schlepped down the hall, also thinking but I’m glad school is over for this year.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Families
Shark- The Carroll Angler's Bring
“Eddie”, his mother yelled, “get dressed and come down here”. This was the third time so, the normally easy-going Eddie, knew he’d better get moving, and yelled back “I’m coming, I’m coming”. Finding sox to wear, was a lost cause, so stepping barefoot into his Dockers, and pulling his belt tight on a pair of light beige cargo shorts, Eddie grabbed a tee shirt and carried it down the back stairs to the kitchen. “Eddie” his mother said, as if he had been there all along, “will you please finish mowing the lawn? Your brother got a call before dawn and rushed off like he was on fire.” “Did Jimmy take the car?” Eddie asked, looking out at the empty driveway. “You don’t need a car to mow the lawn”, she answered, sarcastically. Eddie said, exiting through the screened front door, “I’ll look great picking up Annie for the dance tonight, riding on a lawn mower” letting it slam shut in tempo with his own sarcasm.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Humans
Music Pill Angst Reliever
When I think of threading the needle, and because I’m a guy, my mind shifts to football and basketball, not so much the beautiful fluffy works of sewing various cloths together. Regardless of genre, threading the needle requires perfection in moving something through a difficult obstacle and coming out neatly on the other side. The internet calls “to thread the needle” a verb, to find harmony or strike a balance between conflicting forces, interests, etc., and normally is used to indicate difficulty of doing so; also, sarcastically, for a failed attempt.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Beat
July 4th The Fireworks Day
News of yet another killer bomb, filled the office. Lately, it seemed that’s all people talked about, at water coolers and cafeterias all over the greater Boston area. “Probably another postal guy, pissed off for some lame reason” said Richie Reinold, my friend and fellow buyer here at Oakhill Foodservices. Others chipped in their two cents worth, and as the mundane daily reports of outs and inventory levels found each person’s desk, all went separate ways to conquer the demons of their day.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Criminal
Chocolate Cake to Die for
The headline read “Lexington crash, leaves man hospitalized in coma and on life support”. Typical front-page stuff for the Beantown Messenger, one of Boston’s oldest newspapers. Pete, a veteran reporter, leaned way back in his chair and with feet on the desk, blew out a perfect smoke ring from his unfiltered Chesterfield King cigarette. “I don’t f____ing, understand why they don’t put the f___ing man’s name on the front page. Now you have to waste your f____ing time, looking it up on page 12”. It could be said of Pete, that he never met an expletive he didn’t use, and often. Pete shared the office with four other reporters, two women and two men, all of whom had marvelous control over their expletives.
By David X. Sheehan5 years ago in Fiction
Another Old Barn Story
As a pre-teen boy in the 1950’s, escaping the confines of 361 Spring Street in West Bridgewater, Massachusetts, was exhilarating; even if it meant I had to take my younger brother, Chris, with me. It was freeing, knowing parents weren’t looking over our shoulders and we could do what kids do. What that was, was never sure, but it started with walking out of the back door (“don’t slam the door”) and out of our driveway, which, at the time, was made of small sharp stones. Kicking a rock down the street, and crossing over North Elm Street, Chris and I were headed toward the opening on the odd side of Spring, just before reaching the Spring Street School further down on the right side.
By David X. Sheehan5 years ago in Families
The Stringy and Spot Club
My father, David X. Sheehan Sr., exited the U.S. Navy in 1946. His hitch was up, in the Naval District of Portland, Maine. He had met my mother, Willa Anne Tibbetts, while on Shore Patrol duty at George’s Delicatessen, where she waitressed and he and his partner often ate.
By David X. Sheehan5 years ago in Families
Jerry Krebs Was My Best Friend
Growing up in West Bridgewater, Massachusetts, my closest friend was one Jerry Krebs. I was born on March 4, 1947 and Jerry on March 19, 1947. Gerard Allen Krebs lived at 19 Maolis Avenue, a quick bike ride from the Sheehan house at 361 Spring Street.
By David X. Sheehan5 years ago in Families
A Walk In The Snow
It had been twenty years since the EMPW’s (Electro Magnetic Pulse Weapons) had destroyed any semblance of normalcy; and Aras couldn’t believe how arduous the hike, so far, to the ocean was. Air travel no longer worked and routes that had once been easily drivable, were warped and broken; walking was the best means of getting from one place to another. Aras had left Albany, New York in hopes of finding relatives in Osterville, Massachusetts on Cape Cod. With every step, the visions of hugging and better yet, talking to a friendly face, strengthened the resolve to make it home. Figuring an average of 10 miles a day, Aras reckoned it would take about 25 days to complete the trip. The plan was to arrive on Christmas Day, as long as there were no life threatening, obstacles to overcome.
By David X. Sheehan5 years ago in Fiction
Put some Vaseline on it
My father spent no small amount of time teaching us as he had been taught. Treat everyone with respect, especially women; do the best you could no matter what the subject was. Respect and love your mother, and above all if you get hurt "don't cry". My brother, Chris, and I became intimately acquainted with Papa's many remedies: "Rub it up", "put some dirt on it", "big boys don't cry", "they're tough". Phrases like these along with "put some Vaseline on it" or "it'll make an American out of you", each meant to discourage us from crying, but usually had the opposite effect.
By David X. Sheehan5 years ago in Families
Miss Tibby
“If you make me cry, I’ll unplug the crock pot.” This was a statement I made to my sister, Vicki, on Sunday. In that moment, I thought to myself, would this be a good way to start a memoir? Our conversation continued, while trying a new idea I had, trying to slow cook a dozen chicken legs in a small crockpot. As I lifted the lid to take a whiff, we continued our conversation, which had to do with how similar we are in some ways to our mother, particularly in the way she interfaced with people. Looking back at Vicki, I noticed tears, which led to the first sentence of this writing. I’ll leave it for Vicki to recall her memories, as I begin to unfold some of my recollections of a woman I knew as Mama.
By David X. Sheehan5 years ago in Families
